Fight Fight Fight
by Mistflight
Summary: THE THREE HUNDRED THIRTEENTH HUNGER GAMES.
1. Tribute List

**DISTRICT ONE**  
-Gem (female tribute)  
-Marvel (male tribute)

**DISTRICT TWO**  
-Uranus (male tribute)  
-Stormy(female tribute)

**DISTRICT THREE**  
-Holly Leigh (female tribute)  
-Logan (male tribute)

**DISTRICT FOUR**  
-Adrianna "Splash" Silve (female tribute)  
-Saturn (male tribute)

**DISTRICT FIVE**  
-Annalise (female tribute)  
-Nico di'Anglo (male tribute)

**DISTRICT SIX**  
-Jupiter (male tribute)  
-Aphra (female tribute)

**DISTRICT SEVEN**  
-Mist Hawthorne (female tribute)  
-Ash (male tribute)

**DISTRICT EIGHT**  
-Danae Somnium (female tribute)  
-Darien (male tribute)

**DISTRICT NINE**  
-Gloometh Silverblade (female tribute)  
-Edric Coltsorn (male tribute)

**DISTRICT TEN**  
-Daine (female tribute)  
-Kale (male tribute)

**DISTRICT ELEVEN**  
-Catherine "Lightfoot" Lighten (female tribute)  
-Dean (male tribute)

**DISTRICT TWELVE**  
-Jessica Hope Skybird (female tribute)  
-Edward Cullen (male tribute)


	2. Chapter One: Mist

"The Hunger Games… May the odds be ever in your favor!"

Hah. What a load of crock. Odds? In [i]our[/i] favor? Who're they kidding? Not me, that's for sure. Not Ash, my fellow District Seven tribute, who is standing next to me with a fairly green complexion. Not our families. Not the other tributes. Hell, not even the people in the Capitol, waiting anxiously for us to start offing each other. The odds were certainly not in their favor when they were born to the sadistic, cruel freaks of the Capitol. The goddammed Capitol. Them and their ways of 'keeping peace' with the Districts, their ways of keeping us [i]loyal[/i]. they ain't getting any loyalty from me, that's for sure. The minute they pulled the small white paper out of the lottery ball, the minute the name [i]Mist Hawthorne[/i] was read, I was in a permanent state of rebellion.

I shoot a sideways glance at Ash, who smiles shakily back at me. God he was adorable… It was almost a pity I'd have to kill him. His hair was ash-blonde, his eyes the grey of a rainy day. He was slim and compact, having not really done much to build muscle. We were friends, I guess you could say—well, we hung out in the same crowd, we talked and laughed and played. He was cool. Cooler than others. We planned out the Hunger Games in great detail; we were almost positive we would be chosen for one.

And you know what? We were right. Just weren't expecting to be in the same one. I can tell he's thinking that too, as he turns to face the crowd, refusing to meet my eyes. Refusing to meet anyone's eyes, I notice. Just watching the sunset he loved so much—the oranges and reds, all blended together on the horizon we could barely see though the thick tree line. If anyone could find the splashes of color, it was Ash. Poor thing, he didn't have the heart or the guts to be in this game. We were both seventeen—so close to our last year, so close to being finished with the fear of the games. He seems so much younger in the fading sunlight, so small, so vulnerable. I felt the overwhelming need to shelter him from the horrors of the world, to protect him. But there could only be one victor, and, well, to be perfectly honest, I would fight tooth and nail for the victor to be me.

The Peacekeepers drag us away, none to gentle. Mine was a large, heavy-set guy in his late thirties. "Do you watch the Hunger Games?" I ask innocently, knowing full well he does. Everyone does. "Does it make you feel bad to know you led us to our deaths? Do you go home every day and tell your wife and children you led a tribute to her death?' I pause for a moment, thinking of whether or not I should continue. "Do you tell them you beat a starving kid for stealing food from the storage? [i]Rotten[/i] food?" I can see how the muscle in his jaw twitches, how his iron grip on my arm tightens. "Do you even have a family?"

"I have a wife. Used to have a daughter," he says shortly, through gritted teeth.

"Ahh. Died in the Hunger Games, did she? Oh wait. You're Capitol spawn, you and your family are immune to that. Did you like pain so much you killed her yourself?

I wasn't expecting the slap. Wasn't expecting the sharp, stinging pain, wasn't expecting him to shove me against the wall. He shoves his face into mine; eyes wild. "One of [i]you[/i] killed her," he hisses through gritted teeth. My arm was going to have a bruise tomorrow, the way he's gripping it. He lets go and pushes me into the train that will take me to The Capitol. "I'll enjoy watching you die," he says to me as the doors slide shut.


	3. Chapter Two: Danae

What am I doing here? I sit in the train, watching as field after field after forest after forest rolls by, all melding into one continuous line of brown and green. The terror that gripped my limbs on the stage is fading now, fading into a calm haze of acceptance. I was going to die. That was what I knew, there was nothing I could do to change it. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, thinking of my family. What will they do without me? My friends in the factory… the ones who came to say goodbye, only to run out with their hand pressed over their mouth, trying to keep strong for me. For me. I'll be useless in the arena; this I know already.

"Danae?" I turn towards the door, watching my district partner, Darien, silently as he steps into my compartment. I'd never met him before—he worked in a different part of the factory, was about three years older. "Are you okay?"

I realize I've been staring at him blankly. I shift uncomfortably in my seat and steal a glance out the window, wondering when we'll arrive in the Capitol. "Fine," I murmur, pulling a strand of my honey-brown hair off my shirt. My mom always told me I shed like a long-haired cat in the summer….A lump rises in the throat and I shove the thoughts away. I can't cry here, not in front of Darien.

"…and I never really thought about how much I'd miss the factories." My head jerks up from my lap when I realize he's talking. And probably has been talking this whole time.

"Yeah," I say stupidly. A blush colors my cheeks and I look away again—back towards the windows, towards the outside world I longed to be in. "I mean, I'd rather be making clothes than… than…"

"Than dead." Darien finishes for me.

"Yeah." I study him for a moment, wondering if I could have been his friend, back before the games started. Probably not. He was one of those people who was always surrounded by friends, by girls vying for his attention. Too pretty, for one, and the way he was sitting—leaning casually against the wall, dark green eyes watching her steadily, a small smile playing on his lips. Definitely the arrogant type. The TV across from us flickers on, interrupting my thoughts. We watch the reapings in relative silence.

There I am, walking stiff-legged up to the stage. The mentors watch, the people watch, I glare at the camera with enough hatred to melt the thing, if they'd invented hate-vision. Which they probably had, somewhere in the Capitol. I watch as the Peacekeepers usher us off the stage, of into the cars we now sit. I watch the other districts. I watch, but I don't see. I watch, but I don't hear.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Darien asks, him warm hands pulling mine off the seat. I realize too late that my nails, long as they were, were tearing into the seat, that I was unconsciously ripping out the fluff as I stared at the screen.

"I don't understand!" I burst out, unable to contain it any longer. All the anger, all the unfairness that had bubbled up inside me explodes to the surface and I jump to my feet, wrench open the door, and flee. Because, sadly, that's what I do best. I don't fight. I don't accept it. I flee.


	4. Chapter Three: Holly

The first thing I do when I get to my room is run my hands over all the material, eat everything in sight, and press every single button in sight. Yes, I know I grew up in District Three, around all the various machines and electronics. But there was nothing, [i]nothing[/i] as high-tech as this Capitol stuff. I didn't manufacture anything yet. We're taught how things worked, what goes together and what doesn't. Our products would be disastrous to get wrong. But these—man, these were a work of [i]art.[/i] The wall was so smooth, so seamless, until a button was pushed and food came out. Or clothes. Or anything I wanted. I studied it for a long time, taking things apart, putting them back together. It took my mind off the games.

It took my mind off the games until I was called down for dinner and a meeting with the mentors. Mine was the winner of last year's games; an eighteen year old girl named Jenica, who stares sullenly across the room and refuses to meet anyone's eyes. The other mentor is a thirty-year old man named Sand, who is surprisingly normal for a victor. He sits in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, and my eyes slide to the boy next to him. My heart skips a beat. Of course I knew he was a tribute—how could I not? We were chosen together. First was the name [i]Holly Leigh,[/i] me, mine. Me? My one slip in thousands. My family was relatively well off; no need to sign up for tesserae. But no. Fate was against me, against my twelve years of life. But also with me, in some cruel, vicious way, because the next name to be called was Logan.

Oh, Logan! There he was, sitting there, looking all handsome-like and sexily eating a roll. I slide into the chair across from him and smile, chin resting on my hand. He looks at me warily, tearing his roll into a bunch of tiny pieces. "Yeeeeees?" he asks, and I smile a little wider.

"We're tributes!" I blurt hysterically. Of course this was not a good thing. Nothing about this situation was a good thing. Well, other than the tasty bit of Logan sitting across from me. I've taken the games as kind of an excuse to lose my mind, to go to my happy place and forget everything. Because, really? Was there a point to rebelling? It was inevitable, and nothing to dwell upon. I could dwell on Logan, though. It would make me feel better.

He starts to shred the roll into smaller pieces. "Yeah, we are," he says, voice trembling slightly. Four years older than me and he's scared? Funny the way the world works. I watch him a little more, my mind wandering off to a place I'd heard about watching the Hunger Games. District Four had something called…a beach? Where the water was salty and waves that were bigger than any our lake made lapped against the shore, where soft white sand covers the shoreline. I'd asked Sand about sand before, since he'd been named after it, but he wasn't sure what it was either. We came up with the idea it was some sort of dirt or grass like substance. It made for a pretty picture. Well anyway, I was on the beach, and of course Logan was there too… and we'd both won the games, we moved far far away and decided to have little Logan/Holly babies together.

Man, did I love my imagination. Nothing good would come from these games—although I've mentioned that already, didn't I? But I could hope, I could dream, and I'd drag Logan along with me, whether he wanted me or not. And oh, soon enough, he would want me. Trust me.


	5. Chapter Four: Adrianna

I'm not gonna lie—I was a little worried about what I would be forced into for opening ceremonies. We were usually fishermen, or nets, or like that one year where the District Four tributes were boats. But I listened to my mentors and sat like a good little tribute while my prep team fussed over me, removing every little hair on my body they didn't want. They fuss over my hair; apparently it's the prettiest they'd seen in a long time.

"How do you keep it so free of the saltwater?" my hairstylist, Calpurnia, asks. Her eyes are wide and deep brown, flecks of gold brought out by the dark black eye shadow she wears. It's actually kind of pretty.

"I, uh, well there's a lake close to my house," I reply, thinking fondly of the little lake. It really is quite beautiful; with beautiful flowers and a couple of palm trees my dad hung a hammock from. It's where we go to relax, to even fish a little bit. No one knows about the fish, of course, or the Peacekeepers would possess our poor little lake and we'd have to fish for the Capitol. Even so, we were fairly well-fed, as compared to some of the other districts. District Four was pretty well-off.

My prep teams disappears and I'm left alone with a middle-aged woman, her blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, her skin tinted a deep blue. She leans against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. I can feel her eyes on me. Just staring.

"What?" I snap, unable to help myself. I've never liked being stared at.

"I'm thinking of how you're dress will look," she replies, then shrugs. "Well, let's get it on you and we'll see." She drops some sort of heavy, soft material over me and pushes me in front of a mirror. She's turned me into… a fish. Yeah, a fish. But a pretty fish.

My dress was covered in scale-like gems, each a shade of blue and silver. Every time I moved it shimmered, casting rainbows of color on the opposite wall. It made a pleasing tinkling sound, a sort of bell-like chiming. My face had delicate blue wave designs, blue diamonds and ribbons woven into my wavy dark hair. It was very beautiful, and that was before she put on the silvery-white cape. It gave the impression I was in the ocean; that I [i]was[/i] the ocean. I couldn't speak for a moment.

"….It's beautiful," I manage, and (not gonna lie) I got a little teary. If I won the games, would I be able to wear things like this? It would be almost worth it.

My district partner, Saturn, met me at the front, where our white horses and carriage were tethered. He's dressed in an outfit a little like mine—but more… manly, I guess. He looked good though. "Are you ready?" He asks, and I jerk my head forwards, the only answer I could give. He takes my hand and pulls me on to the carriage where wait for our signal. District One… Two… Three… us. I know we are beautiful. We're the ocean personified, we are what they wish they could see but can't. We bring a little bit of District Four to the Capitol, to the other Districts. It was what made us [i]us[/i], what made us special.

I always loved that part of the games. And, well, I wanted to be a part of it someday. And here I was, the girl from the ocean, the girl who smiles and waves at the audience. What a tribute should be-not like those sullen, angry-looking tributes from ten and twelve. They should be happy they're not starving back home. I know I am.


	6. Chapter Five: Jessica

I circle around the Training Area, looking for something. Something… useful, I guess, easy enough to learn but good enough to use in the arena. Being from Twelve, well, no one really had high hopes for me, poor little Jessica Skybird. I remember standing on the platform, everyone looking on with pity. Edward didn't look to upset; he was a little bit of an odd bird, though.

He stands next to me, watching everything with a hazy golden gaze and a crooked smile. As always, he looks like he owns the place and everyone in it. "Why don't we go play with some sharp objects?" he asks, turning his gaze to me.

"Why don't I wander off over here to be alone?' I mutter under my breath, heading towards a station with edible plants and berries. I can feel him following me, and I brush off the feeling of disgust creeping over me. The berries look delicious; but as I am about to eat a couple bright red, juicy-looking fruit that looks a bit like a pear, the trainer knocks it out of my hand and glares at me.

"Haven't you been listening to one thing I've been saying?" he hisses, gathering up his array of fruits and berries. Obviously I hadn't, as I was about to chow down on an apparently extremely deadly fruit. He turns his back on me and busies himself with the plants, and I take that as my cue to leave.

The other stations are just as bad, maybe worse. I discover I'm useless with a spear, a sword, and don't get me started on archery.

"C'mon, could you really be that useless at [i]everything?[/i]" Edwards says, chuckling under his breath. He's been heckling me all day, making fun of pretty much everything I do, and suddenly I can't stand it anymore.

"Can you go off and bother someone else?" I snap, well aware that any threats I made now would not be taken very seriously.

He shrugs and runs a hand through his hair. "But no one else is as bad as you are."

Thinking back on it, his insults were lame. It was his mannerisms that made me want to rip his head off. "I believe you've mentioned that already," I say, my voice cool and collected. I decide to pretend he doesn't exist and spend my time searching for something I was good at. Where hadn't I been yet? I wander to the section where they are teaching us tributes how to climb trees. Edward, of course, follows me.

I scale the trees in record time, and by the time I reach the ground, everyone is staring at me. Even Edward. "Wow," he says, though his voice is still a little snarky, "looks like the little ugly duckling found her skill."

My mouth twists into what could only be described as a smile—and I know he's right. Who can kill me, if I can't be seen?

But, it would be just my luck if there were no trees at all in the arena.


	7. Chapter Six: Daine

I step into the dazzling light of the large room where interviews were held, blinking wildly and trying to regain my vision. Seriously, they had like ten million little light posts scattered around the place, all centered around the tributes and the main stage. You couldn't look anywhere without being blinded constantly. I stare out into the audience; I could only see black blobs, with no shape or form. I blame it on the lights. Even then, though, I could see there were a lot of people out there. A lot. Hopefully rich people who wanted to help me live.

I wipe my sweaty palms on the blue jeans they gave me to wear. I'd thrown a fit about wearing that stupid dress, the one that looked like someone stitched up a tent and painted it in cow colors. No District Ten girl would wear a stupid dress like that. I mean, really? My designers sucked. So anyway, I flat-out refused to wear the dress, or any dress, so they gave me these really nice blue jeans and a black v-neck; relatively normal dress but oh so different from what they gave us to wear in District Ten. At least I knew I wasn't going to have to shovel up cow crap or milk cows or do anything remotely related to cows.

I sit on the chair reserved for me, a plush, comfortable thing. I almost didn't want to get up. I just sit there and listen, as the girl from District One flutters up and talks in her stupid little-girl voice, about how good the Capitol was to her and other crap. The boy went along the same spiel as her, although a little less obnoxiously.

District Two. The female's obviously going for sexy, though falling short. I watch as she gives a breathy little laugh at one of Caesar's comments about food—it isn't very funny, but everyone else seems to enjoy it. She tosses her black hair back and stands, hand on her hip as she gazes at the audience. "Thank you very much for all you've done for me," she says, giving a small curtsy. I catch a name—Stormy. Caesar mentions something about her eyes matching her name and I wondered vaguely if they're gray.

District Three. Girl named Holly. She's twelve, though looks older, fairly tall and built for running. She doesn't really have an angle, or really much of a personality. I notice how she keeps glancing back at the male tribute, blushes, and turns back to the interview—losing everything they'd been talking about in the process. It obvious she's got a thing for him—Logan, that's his name—but when he goes up for the interview I can tell it's a one-sided thing. Logan seems to be a bit of a wimp, always casting anxious glances around, not really saying anything remotely interesting. I imagine he'll die early.

District Four turns out some interesting characters, one a girl named Adrianna, who seemed like a fighter, the other a boy named Saturn who said nothing the whole time. Adrianna's angle was one of excitement—that one you didn't see much in the games. People would like that, though, someone who didn't see being drawn as a death sentence but more of as a vacation. Interesting. Saturn sits there and stares the audience down. He says nothing.

Annalise is the District Five tribute—I'd met her in training. We were a team; her, me, and the girl from District Seven. Annalise is another fighter, one who regards the Capitol with open hostility throughout the entire interview. She's not going to get very many sponsors; that much I could tell. The boy is another twelve-year old. Pasty faced and small, this kid isn't going to get very far at all.

District Six brings the strange girl, Aphra, I think. She was often seen walking around with a bemused expression, almost as if she wasn't exactly sure what was going on. Her interview comprised of roundabout questions and answers, and when she was done, I was about as confused as everyone else in the room. Who was this girl? No one knew. She was an odd one. Jupiter was the boy—a tall, athletic kid who got a nine in trials. No one knows what to make of him.

Seven brings out my other ally—Mist Hawthorne, a small girl with white-blonde hair and the coldest blue eyes I'd ever seen. She's like me; a fighter, not taking anything from anyone and fighting with full force. She was a killer, and her angle was one of confidence and arrogance. We planned that together—everyone would think we would be trying to kill each other off. They'd be surprised to hear we were allies already. And then it was Ash. There's so many weakling males in this thing, surprisingly enough. Usually the males won.

Danae and Darien, the District Eight tributes, work together to bring sympathy to the table. There's quite a lot of love simmering throughout this competition. It was so sugary sweet I felt the need to brush my teeth a couple hundred time. It was obvious Darien had most of the love in this relationship, while Danae was more in it for friendship and maybe some sponsors. Sponsors were into that kind of lovey-dovey crap. Nothing better than watching that kind of heartbreak on live television.

District Nine brought an oddity—a girl named Gloometh who appeared to have undergone massive surgery. Either that or her mom mated with a cat, which, even for this day-and-age, was a little out there. She had cat-slit eyes and fangs, cat ears and a tail, and was so well-muscled it was bordering on unfair. They let this girl into the competition? I'm so busy trying to wrap my mind around her odd appearance I don't listen to her interview. She's got so many scars there wasn't much skin left, other than that which was covered in black tattoos. She's frightening. I'd run from her. The male, Edric, is a little more normal. He's got that indifferent I-don't-care-about-anything attitude, and seems fairly normal.

And then it was Ten. Me. "Daine!" Caesar calls, and I saunter up to the hot seat. "So I understand you volunteered," he says, and I nod. "We don't generally see people from the lower Districts volunteer. Can you tell me why?" I smile; this was the tough part.

"I think that there has been too much unfairness in these games," I say, raking my eyes over the Career Districts. 'If One, Two, and Four can turn out competent victors, why can't, say, Ten?" I catch the audience's stare and grin. "I figure I can beat any of these people with my eyes shut and my hands behind my back." The buzzer rings and he dismisses me, shaking his head and smiling.

"Got a real fighter there," he says. "Watch out for that one!"

Kale's interview flies by, followed by District Eleven. Thank god it's almost over. The next girl was someone named Catherine, nicknamed Lightfoot. They talked about her nickname for a while, cause there was nothing remotely 'light' about her. Turns out she was a runner. A fast runner, one who could outpace anyone, apparently. She obviously hadn't tested it. Dean, the male, was uninteresting and beneath my attention.

Twelve! Finally! Jessica's the tribute who could climb trees. And that's really all she had going for her. Not very interesting, her angle was one of modesty. Really. That was all they could find for her. The boy was all arrogance, all flashy and pretty. Odd for a tribute for twelve. He was also unremarkable—and then, finally, it was all over.

As bad as it sounds, I'm ready to go kill these people.


	8. Chapter Seven: Aphra

I sit on a stool, my leg bouncing up and down as I anxiously await my prep team. Today is the day, today is the day I would have to go into the arena and fight for death, when I would have to kill or be killed. I pull my legs up onto the chair, resting my chin on my knees. They were late, right? What happened if they were late? Would I be exempted? Would they keep the arena from opening until I came? Would I be killed on the spot and my body dropped into the arena where they would say it was a freak accident in my room but they needed twenty-four tributes so my body would be dropped there as an example to others? Would—No, I had to stop. I twirled a strand of thick ginger hair and bite my lip, staring at the door with enough force I'm surprised it doesn't burst into flames.

I wait. And wait. Surely they couldn't have forgotten, not on a day like this? Maybe something terrible had happened, and the games wouldn't go on? A little bubble of hope blooms inside me, a bubble I have to quell instantly. Just in case. Maybe something—the door opens and my thoughts shut off nearly instantly, the prep team comes in and they refuse to meet my eyes. Panic grips me and I fight the urge to run, to fight, to, I dunno, make them stop looking at me like I'm on my death bed.

Then, reality sets in. I am on my death bed. They're sending me off to fight, and there is a very very slim chance of survival. No wonder they look like that. My stylist shoves and bundle of clothes into my arms and leads me away, away towards wherever we're going. I walk without thinking, watching everything go by—white walls, windows, white walls, windows—"You're bleeding," my stylist cuts into my thoughts, gesturing at my arm.

I've been obsessively picking at my tracker; blood's welled up around it, little droplets slipping down my arm. Funny, I didn't feel the pain until that moment. He gently tugs on my arm and pulls me into this room, this small little thing where I pull on the soft, forest-y shirt and pants. He nudges me towards the plate and I stand there in trepidation, waiting for it to rise, hoping it doesn't.

"Good luck, Aphra," he says, and slips away. Luck was all I had.

The plate rises and I shut my eyes, waiting for a cool breeze to tickle my hair, a hot blast of sand, anything that would tell me I'm in the arena, anything to tell me I'm ready to murder. I wasn't, though, and I didn't think I ever would be.

It hits me like a slap in the face. It's cold, freezing almost, and my eyes pop open almost instantly. Trees! Trees everywhere! Trees claustrophobically surrounding the golden cornucopia, the only open space around. Trees swallowed up by the blackness beyond. The ground covered in snow, fluffy white snow peppered with black stuff and pine needles. No wonder it was freezing. Fear grips me; how will I keep warm? I had to go try my luck at the cornucopia. I had no choice. The gong rings out suddenly and I stumble, falling forwards into the snow. [i]Get up get up get up,[/i] I yell at myself; I'm a sitting duck. I find my footing and run towards the cornucopia, ignoring the screams and metal-on-metal sounds of kids fighting. I grab a backpack, some food, a woolen blanket—about to move on when I trip again and lose some food.

Three girls are surrounding one boy—the District Twelve tribute, Edward, was it? I stand and stare in horror as they take turns stabbing him, not enough to kill him, but enough to make him hurt for hours on end. A couple other people join in and now it's a feeding frenzy, killing killing all around me, everywhere, and I turn to run into the forest, away from the knives and the violence. I can hear someone crying from far away and my throat hurts; it's me, I'm crying and I'm screaming and I'm _all alone._

The trees swallow me up and the blood-stained snow glows red.


End file.
